


Never Harbour nor Port Have I Known

by kindofspecificstore



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Canon Jewish Character, M/M, Post-Canon, Queer Friendly, Religion, Unitarian Universalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24502231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindofspecificstore/pseuds/kindofspecificstore
Summary: On a rare visit to his hometown, Patrick's parents ask him and David to come to church with them. Patrick has a lot to process.
Relationships: Clint Brewer & Marcy Brewer, Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 29
Kudos: 116





	Never Harbour nor Port Have I Known

**Author's Note:**

> *rubs hands together, cracks knuckles
> 
> Hi folks. I read GCLane's wonderful exploration of David's relationship to Judaism, (https://archiveofourown.org/works/21820861), and wanted to explore more of Patrick’s thoughts/experiences with religion. I've centred it around my own religion, Unitarian Universalism, which is very precious to me. All that's included in this fic is from my direct knowledge and experience, as well as my peers. Please note that THIS IS QUEER FRIENDLY.
> 
> With reference to the Inside Schitt's Creek video for the holiday special, Patrick mentions going to an all-boys Catholic high school. I've kept that true to this fic, as well as David's "delightful half-half situation." 
> 
> I'm dedicating this one to my fellow Sunday school teachers with piercings, tattoos, dyed hair, and tumblr accounts.
> 
> Title and lyrics are from Blue Boat Home by Peter Mayer

"I just don’t understand why it needed to be today” Patrick kicks a stray pebble on the sidewalk. He hasn't had his tea yet, and it's showing.

David gazes back at him quizzically, knowing just how stubborn his husband is being.

“Today is Sunday, what did you expect?”

Patrick shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“I don’t know, maybe we would have a nice morning brunch. I’m on vacation.”

“Mkay. I think the two of us have a widely different idea of what is considered a vacation. For a example, I envision a weekend by the seashore in Maine eating fresh lobster, not _visiting_ your _parents_.”

“We’re off work, David. We are taking _vacation days_ so we can visit my parents.”

“Yes and I can hear your resounding enthusiasm”

Patrick avoids eye contact, knowing deep down David is right to call him out.

“Says you. I can’t believe you of all people are excited to be up this early.”

David shrugs. Sometimes he surprises Patrick with just how reasonable he can be.

“Well this means a lot to your parents, so forgive me for wanting to try," gaze softening, David presses on.

"Listen I haven’t been to temple in a long time. Like a _long_ time. You know that. Not to mention church architecture is the foundation of the gothic period. So let’s just walk in, and see what happens, okay?”

Patrick nods, processing. He’s not happy about it, but he’ll do it. Up until they’re arrival on Friday night, he didn’t know his mom and dad had been spending Sunday mornings going to church.

_It’s very important to your father, it’s the first time the minister has asked him to do the service,_ Marcy had said late Friday night over her mug of tea.

It’s the one thing Patrick has been dreading all weekend. Not the possibility of running into Rachel’s parents in the grocery store. Not sorting through his baseball trophies in the basement. _Church._ He had enough of religion in school, an all boys Catholic high school no less. The family was kind-of Catholic. _Had_ been, is perhaps now the proper word for it. Christmas and Easter mass, communion. Stand up, sit down, read this, repeat that, stand up, sit down again. It was never something he connected with.

Looking back, perhaps he felt something when the principal denied his classmate’s proposal for a Gay-Straight Alliance. He recalls having to watch _For the Bible Tells Me So_ in religion class, now realizing why he threw up before baseball practice the same afternoon. 

His steps are slow, and hesitant. Maybe if he stalls enough, they can breeze past the service and join his parents for coffee hour. Unfortunately David is too supportive of a partner to let him veer off course.  They climb the steps together, opening the oak doors. It’s a combination of old and new. Positioned in the front lobby window are two flags; one for pride, the other for Black Lives Matter.

_Huh._

People are milling about, chatting with one another. Some are wearing name tags. They’re all migrating towards a heavy set of oak doors, probably leading into the sanctuary. A woman in jeans and a cardigan stands to the side, greeting people as they walk through.  She smiles as they approach.

“Good morning. Is it your first time here with us?”

David looks at Patrick and touches his shoulder, and non verbal indication that says _“Do you want me to take over?”_ He gives him a small smile in return, and looks back to the person greeting them.

“Yes. Actually, I’m Clint’s son.”

Her eyes widen, face soft with warmth and kindness. She reaches into the cart beside her, handing them two hymnals stuffed with leaflets. “Well, thank you for coming today. Y’know your dad did a child dedication for my daughter last month? He’s a wonderful speaker.”

His eyebrows must scrunch in confusion, because she quickly fills him in with, “that’s our equivalent of a baptism.”

“Aah I see. Thanks for translating.”

She flips her wrist in nonchalance, a gesture that says _It’s all good_ and _You wouldn’t be the first to ask._

_“_ Shall we?” David asks, giving Patrick's hand a squeeze. He’s looking at Patrick one last time, checking to see that he feels safe enough to enter. 

Patrick shrugs. They’re here now. Might as well.

They walk down the aisle scanning for Marcy. Instead of pews, the room has rows and rows of cushioned chairs. If Patrick had his way, they’d be sitting in the back row, a quick exit that prevents them from having to talk to anyone he might know from his hometown. Unfortunately, Marcy is a supportive spouse, and is sitting smack dab in the front row.  Eyes already darting amongst the crowd, she locks down her two boys, waving them over excitedly. Patrick quickens his pace to join her, trying to go unnoticed amongst the rest of the congregation. She pats the seat beside her. He takes it, whispering,

“You didn’t tell me dad does child dedications.”

She shrugs. Marcy's voice is soft enough that she doesn't have to lower it to match his tone.

“I didn’t think you’d be interested, but yes. Lay chaplaincy means weddings, child dedications, memorials, and the occasional subbing in when the minister asks for a weekend off.”

“What?” Patrick is ultimately confused. When his mother had explained their connection to the church a few days ago, he simply understood his father speaking in church to be something like an announcement or reading a bible passage. He didn’t know it meant _running_ the service. David has decidedly given him and his mother privacy, thumbing through the papers that were folded into the hymnals. Marcy continues to explain,

“You’re not the only one who keeps a private life honey. We didn’t know how you would react. I know you weren’t always a fan of your high school experience”

“That was just because Rachel went to public school.”

She places her hand gently on his and squeezes. Patrick’s comebacks may be razor sharp, but his mother switches gears to a slower, compassionate tone.

“Perhaps this is a larger conversation that we can have later, but your dad and I appreciate you supporting him today.”

He nods, unsure as to how he feels about this whole thing. Patrick Brewer, forever the supportive son.

He feels an excited tap on his right shoulder, as David waves one the piece of papers he was reading.

“Patrick, they have Friday night dinners here!”

Marcy leans across him to talk to David, eyes now full of mystery.

“You should see the spread they bring out for Nowruz.”

David’s happily shimmying shoulders are interrupted by the exuberant opening bars of a hymn. A woman in purple hair and a septum piercing is on stage. _Huh._ She leans into a microphone asking everyone to rise in body or in spirit. 

_Here we go,_ he says to himself. His mom happens to know exactly what page to turn to, raising the book and leaning over so both he and David can read along with her.

_Though below me, I feel no motion_

_Standing on these mountains and plains_

_Far away from the rolling ocean_

_Still my dry land heart can say_

_I’ve been sailing all my life now_

_Never harbour or port have I known_

_The wide universe is the ocean I travel_

_And the earth is my blue boat home_

Patrick allows his eyes to drift once they move on to the next verse. It’s the kind of melody you can get lost in. The sanctuary (Is it still called a sanctuary? A main room?) is bathed in morning light. A large tapestry of a tree hangs centre stage, and the purple-haired woman smiles as she helps everyone connect to the pianist's rhythm. Her chin juts out every so slightly, the other congregants turning heads to follow her gaze.

And there he is. Clint Brewer is walking up the aisle, dressed for the occasion in _robes,_ and an overlay that looks suspiciously like it came from the costume his mother made him for J _oseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat._

Clint Brewer is strong and firm, a gentle giant. Apart from this change in uniform, he still _looks_ like Patrick’s dad, still walks like he’s Patrick’s dad. But there’s something different about him today.  He climbs the steps to join the song leader on stage. As the hymn comes to an end, Clint moves to the podium. (Pulpit? Podium? _Microphone_? Patrick decides clarifying terminology will have to come later). He opens wide, calloused palms, a genuine smile that brings out the crows’ feet Marcy speaks so fondly of.

“Good morning!”

His father’s voice is grounding and calm, but matches the energy of the hymn he had just walked in to. People begin to sit down again, responding with a good morning right back at him, his mother included.

Clint’s hands rest at the podium in front of him, his eyes slowly drifting out to the congregation, as if greeting everyone individually.

“Good morning and welcome to the Riverside Unitarian Universalist Church. My name is Clint Brewer, my pronouns are he and his-“

_What. He’s never heard his dad say that._

_“-_ and as your lay chaplain, I’ll be giving today’s reflection for Reverend Ahmed while he is visiting his mother in hospital. May our thoughts and prayers be with him and his family at this time. 

In the spirit of beloved community, all are welcome here.  We welcome you here, no matter what your cultural, religious, racial,  ethnic, or socio-economic identity or background, immigration status,  gender identity or sexual orientation may be. Whether you are skeptic or a mystic, an atheist, or an agnostic, theist or a spiritual seeker. We invite you to join as us you are, as we explore our values together. As Unitarian Universalists we welcome and nurture, question and challenge, and take action in the world.”

Patrick shoulders slowly begin to unravel, dispelling tension he wasn’t aware he had been carrying. His dad has an impressive ability of sharing eye contact with everyone in attendance while he speaks. He darts his eyes to the right, trying to duck out of his father’s gaze and check in with David. 

The face beside him is soft and compassionate, shoulder gently leaning into him as if to say, _told you we wouldn’t burn if we walked in here._

Clint ends his welcome in a land acknowledgement, and calls over to the children to light the chalice. Patrick hadn’t noticed when they came in, but the other side of the sanctuary has been carved free of chairs, pillows lining the floor. A small group of kids are colouring and playing with foam blocks. Two of them scramble up, guided by an androgynous teenager with square-framed glasses. A girl in light-up shoes and a Doc McStuffins t-shirt walks up to Clint, who makes a bit of a show pulling out a step stool so she can reach the microphone. There is a quiet chuckle amongst the crowd, but everyone hushes as the young girl goes to speak. He watches in awe as his father walks her through a Mary Oliver poem, all while the older teen helps the other child to light a candle in an official-looking silver cup. 

He thinks back to the services he had to attend when he was their age. Sneakers never would’ve been appropriate. It’s not like they rolled up in their pyjamas, but the kids look… comfortable? Like they’re actually excited to be there.  With the chalice lit, the children race back to the pile of pillows, their minder following behind. Patrick takes the time to scan through the leaflet David showed him, trying to figure out what would be in store for the rest of the morning.

The purple-hair/septum-pierced woman, who he learns is named Megan, leads everyone in a few more songs. One of the adults sitting near the kid’s pillow fortress gets up and sits at the lip of the stage, reading a picture book about a mermaid to everyone before the kids get to leave for Sunday school activities.

Clint’s sermon, or _reflection,_ his dad’s preferred word for it, isn’t at all what Patrick is used to. He’s not even sure what he expected, actually. Clint reflects on the principles of their faith, what they mean to him personally, and how he recognizes examples of it within this church community. He reflects on a newer principal that is trying to be passed nation wide, that would recognize the church’s role in the history of systemic racism and oppression. He calls for solidarity with the recent protests that have been happening across the country, and the need to take action as a predominately white congregation. 

Around him, congregation members hum or nod along in agreement. Some have even brought a pen to scribble notes in the margin of their leaflets. When he looks to his left, and sees his mother beaming proudly up at the stage. When he looks to his right, and sees his husband leaning forward, attentive. 

When the chalice is extinguished and service comes to a close, Clint and Megan proceed back down the aisle, leaving everyone to mill about and head towards the reception hall for refreshments. His mom grabs his knee quite suddenly. 

“Honey, I’ve just realized the cookies I made for coffee hour were left in the car. Are you and David feeling brave enough to stay here by yourselves for a moment?”

David reaches across him saying, “Oh that’s okay Marcy, we can grab them for you if you’d like to chat with people.”

He realizes his husband is giving him an _out._ A moment of quiet to digest what they just sat through, disguised as a favour. Or maybe he just wants another sample of Marcy’s famous shortbread. (It’s probably both).

He surprises himself, insisting to his mother that he wants to see more of the building.

Marcy smiles and touches his shoulder, taking her purse from the seat beside her.

“People are going to want to talk to your father, so we might be hanging around for a bit.”

She gets up to head out, but stops before exiting.

“I really appreciate you staying, honey” Marcy’s eyes are glistening. She reaches up to cup his cheek before walking out of the sanctuary.

Once she’s out of eyesight, he leans back in his chair, struggling to take in what just happened.

David leans into his side again. Only now does Patrick notice that he chose to wear his “I believe in the power of love” sweater, and it’s a lot.

“You okay?” He asks softly.

He tries to inhale, breath almost shaking. “That was. Beautiful. I didn’t know my dad could do that.”

David shrugs. Somehow he comes off as if this whole thing is easy for him.

“I didn’t know either.”

He helps Patrick to his feet, and they walk out the emptying sanctuary. David’s hand is at Patrick’s elbow, gently guiding him through this unprescribed daze. He hands the books back to the same woman at the front, now re-organizing the hymnals and stacking the paper leaflets.

She smiles back at them in thanks.

“Could I keep this?”, he says, holding up the church bulletin David handed him earlier. “I’d like to keep reading it.”

She nods, pointing towards the doors leading into the reception.

“There’s a whole library in there if you’d like to read more.”

Patrick’s eyes widen. Now he’s intrigued.

“Really?”

“Go ahead,” she assures him. “As the archivist, it’s my job to share it with any newcomers.”

David’s fingers dance on Patricks shoulders. _Shall we?_

They head towards the reception hall. A group of people are lining up near the doors, waiting to speak to Clint. It feels rude to bypass everyone, but Patrick would rather that than stand before his dad right now. What would he say? Is he supposed to call his dad _Chaplain_? 

The reception hall is scattered with small folding tables and chairs. There is a smaller one filled with some of the children he saw earlier, their parents pulling lunches out of cooler bags. _Smart._ David of course is gravitating towards the table with plates on plates of cookies and biscuits. He turns back to Patrick.

“I see some chocolate-enrobed Madeline’s calling my name, so why don’t you explore.”

“Bring me an earl grey if they have it?”

“Of course”, he squeezes Patrick’s shoulder and kisses him on the cheek. 

It’s not until he watches David walk away does he realize he’s frozen in place. Of course if they were back home in the cafe, no one would bat an eye, but _here_?

He blinks, trying to take in his surroundings, hoping that no one saw. His eyes gravitate back to the children’s table. The girl in the Doc McStuffins t-shirt is happily eating while the woman sitting beside her is trying to pick leaves out of her hair. _Huh._ Maybe Sunday school went outside today? Then purple-haired and septum-pierced song leader Megan comes up from behind, placing a hand on her back. 

“Don’t forget to eat the crust baby. Mama T got up early to make breakfast _and_ lunch for us.”

_Oh._

He turns slowly back to the library, where he had originally intended on going. The library is in actuality an alcove, lined with three bookshelves. His eyes scan over the display. 

_The Holy Bible_

_Interpreting Hebrew Texts_

_The Qur’an_

_The Lord of The Rings Trilogy???_

There’s also the Michelle Obama memoir David keeps raving about, Walt Whitman’s _Leaves in the Grass_ , and a series of books entitled _Our Whole Lives: Sexual Education Curriculum and the UU Faith._

_What in fresh hell._

“Like what you see?”, says an all too familiar voice behind him.

He whips his head around, startled.

Clint chuckles, smiling back at him. His robes have been replaced by the same crisp white button down Patrick saw him wear at the breakfast table.

“Dad, what is…”, he tries manically gesturing to the collection of volumes before them, but really he has so many more questions. Thankfully his father steps in.

“What is this place?”, Clint suggests as a starting point.

Patrick nods slowly, unable to verbalize the demand for an explanation.

“Yeah.”

Clint sighs, moving in closer to his son.

“Your mother and I knew you didn’t have the _best_ time in high school. I think we thought it could give you a religious…mmm… foundation. But maybe it did more harm than good. Then you went off to college and there was no baseball practice or community theatre rehearsals to get to on the weekends, and a friend recommended we try this place out.”

Patrick stuffs his hands in his pockets. It’s all starting to make more sense now. 

“I see.” He and his father nod. “And I guess you liked it enough to stick around?”

Clint chuckles, rubbing his chin. He smiles. “I guess you could say that. Stuck around long enough, and now it’s become an important part of our lives. We didn’t want to pressure you into anything, especially after you were out of the house. So I guess it just didn’t come up. And then once we learned about David, we didn’t know if-“

Patrick breaks into a smile, immediately locating his husband not far from the cookies. Clint’s eyes follow. They watch David chat animatedly with the teenager who was helping the younger kids, gesturing to his _power of love_ sweater. Patrcik's lip reading skills are sub par, but he can practically hear him spelling out the details of the DvN fall collection.

“Yeah David’s actually having a great time.”

Clint nods in agreement.

“I’m glad to hear.” He turns back to his son, and his eyes are almost glassy.

“You know son, a lot of people who find Unitarian Universalism come from stricter religious backgrounds. Traditions that don’t accept them for who they are. I’m in no way trying to indoctrinate you, but this community has been a source of healing for a lot of people.”

It feels as if Clint is looking directly into his son’s soul. Patrick squints.

“Dad, is this _gay_ church?”

Clint laughs, clapping his son on his shoulder.

“Not completely. It started off as Judaeo-Christian, but has become encompassing of all faiths. More humanist than anything else.”

Patrick nods, trying to take in all the he is saying. His gaze softens beyond Clint as he begins to notice the rest of the reception hall. There are older couples, young families, even a group of college-aged students sitting further towards the back. Some people are here by themselves, while others have come in couples or families. An older man supported by a walker laughs with a woman Patrick’s age, clad in a floral hijab. 

“I help Reverend Ahmed host an online introductory course. I can give you the zoom link, if you’d like.”

Patrick’s gaze shifts back to his dad. Maybe. This is all a lot to take in. And he still hasn’t had his tea yet today.

As if by reading Patrick’s thoughts, David materializes at his side, green mug in hand.

“Sorry that took so long. I ran into Haden when I was getting cookies and they started asking me about my sweater,” he says, while passing his husband the prized earl grey. Patrick welcomes the steaming cup to his lips as David goes on, “Anyway then they had to introduce me to their grandma, who happens to be the head of the gardening committee, and I’m absolutely dying to see the peonies out back.”

David is clapping his hands excitedly when Patrick notices the short, older woman by David’s side. She’s holding one of Marcy’s shortbread cookies. She looks up at him.

“Oh is this the husband you were telling me about?” She has the soft hint of an English accent. _Of course_ David’s already charmed by her. “He’s so handsome! You must be Clint’s boy.”

Patrick offers to shake her hand, smiling. Clint watches this exchange proudly, as if to say, _see, you are welcome here._ He cuts in gracefully.

“I’m so glad you got the chance to introduce yourself, Frances. Unfortunately the peony viewing might have to be quick. Marcy and I want to take the boys to lunch before they head back to Schitt’s Creek.”

David frowns at the notion of having to leave, but Frances’ eyes twinkle in excitement.

“Oh you’re in Schitt’s Creek! My sister has a cottage in Elm Glen- there’s a UU fellowship there.”

_Imagine that._ David gasps to dramatize how impressed he is with this new knowledge, but breezily diverts for what might be a later conversation. 

“I’ll meet you back at the car in five?”, David proposes. Patrick knows a David Rose five is actually closer to ten minutes, but it’s probably fine. He might need a moment alone to speak with his parents.  They let David leave with Frances in tow, and Clint turns back to Patrick.

“I just have to put some things away upstairs, then I’ll be ready to head out. If you see your mother, please don’t let her start washing the dishes.”

Patrick laughs along with his father. Of course Marcy would be volunteering every Sunday. Seeing his parents here is beginning to make a lot of sense.  Clint goes to leave, but Patrick stops him.

“Hey dad-“

Clint pauses, gently waiting for his son to continue. Patrick clears his throat. He doesn’t really know where to start.

“I’m really glad you asked me to come here today.”

Clint sniffs, opening his arms out for a hug.

“Of course, son.”

He claps Patrick on the back, then holds him at shoulder’s length. “I’m glad you came.”

Patrick can all but smile back. Why does this feel like his birthday party all over again?

“So I’ll meet you at the car then?”

Clint nods, squeezes his shoulders, then heads out towards what Patrick assumes to be his office. Patrick gazes down into his mug, as if asking his earl grey to dispel its secrets.

“I can take that to the kitchen for you if you like,” he looks up to see the young person David identified as Haden, who is gesturing to Patrick’s nearly empty mug of tea.

Patrick nods gratefully, handing his mug over to them. 

“Hey I don’t know if you know my mom, Marcy Brewer, but uh my dad said not to let her wash dishes again.”

Haden laughs. “I’ll tell her you said so, but she’s very insistent.” They leave in the direction of the kitchen.

Now with a stomach full of tea and free of his mug, Patrick is happy to step outside and get some fresh air. He swings open the doors into a bright, easy, early afternoon. 

_Huh._

So that was church.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. If you have any questions, you can find me at kindofspecificstore on tumblr.


End file.
